


traditions, old and new

by SharkbaitHooHaHa



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkbaitHooHaHa/pseuds/SharkbaitHooHaHa
Summary: UPDATE: New Year's EveA collection of winter themed ficlets.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 74





	1. Traditions

It’s about the traditions.

For Aziraphale, it’s about hot drinks and a roaring fire. It’s about blankets and warmth and a first edition Charles Dickens. It’s about the giving, the generosity, and the gifts gorgeously wrapped with pretty little bows. It’s about carolers and songs about light an joy. It’s about baked goods, brought home from bakeries that put them in parcels with string, it’s about savoring that first bite and letting the flavor soak in.

For Crowley, it’s about trees of pine, grown so tall and so green you’d think they were decades old. It’s about poinsettias, with blooms so red they might be painted to be that way. It’s about mistletoe, grown with care and hung at prominent points around the city and it’s about words (”it’s _lust_ , Angel, I’m promoting _lust_!”) that ring hollow in the face of an angel’s knowing smile. It’s about the comforting _click-clack_ of a set of knitting needles, and gifts that are made but never delivered. It’s about sleeping through the cold and waking with the first blooms of spring.

And suddenly, it’s about traditions made together.

It becomes about trees now bearing all sorts of baubles and lights and blankets shared with the warmth of another body. It’s about memorized words sounding new as they’re read aloud. It’s about bouquets presented with a flourish and a face as red as the flowers themselves.

It’s about that first soft touch of lips, gently asking _is this okay_? It’s about shared breath and matching heartbeats.

It’s about baked goods, no longer carried home in a box, but presented fresh out of the oven after hours yelling at flour and yeast. It’s about falling asleep to lullabies and waking to fresh-fallen snow and a fresh mug of coffee presented with a loving smile.

It’s about mistletoe hung in the backroom, an unnecessary excuse, but still a welcome one. It’s about giving freely, but also receiving, and love that flows so easily from one to the other. It’s about scarves, handmade and long enough to share, and matching sweaters with goofy patterns.

It’s about shared laughter, and open hearts, and someone who knows you better than you know yourself.

It’s about the traditions. Traditions born from love.


	2. Winter

Crowley looked out the window that morning to find a thick, fresh coat of snow draped across the scenery and sighed. The first snow of the year. It brought back memories of nights huddled inside a tiny hut with little more than a thick wool blanket for warmth; days spent trudging through the fields, stopping every few minutes to the get the icy slush out of his boots; mornings trapped behind walls of stone and glass, helpless to do nothing except sit and watch as the swirling winds built up the frost at his door.

Winters, for him, were a lonely affair. He lacked the natural warmth and light that had been bestowed upon Aziraphale which granted him invitations to warm parties and large feasts. He remembered the angel had invited him along once, to some grand yuletide ball in the early 1100′s. He had felt woefully out of place and found himself alone by the wall for most of the evening until he had found the opportunity to slip away into the cold night.

Yes, it was certain that, back then, winter had been his least favorite time of year.

“Crowley?” A sleep-rough voice brought him out of his reverie. He turned to find a mop of blonde curls accompanied by the bluest eyes peering at him from under the blankets on the bed. “What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked through a long yawn.

Crowley, overcome with fondness, smiled. “Nothing, Angel,” he said. Finding out what his husband was like when half-awake had been an unexpected delight to come out of their new arrangement. “Go back to sleep.”

Aziraphale gave an unintelligible ‘mmf’ of protest and patted the empty side of the mattress insistently. “Come back to bed.”

Even if Crowley had wanted to argue, he was powerless against those pleading eyes and lazy smile. He climbed under the covers and immediately shoved his chilly feet under Aziraphale’s backside.

Aziraphale let out a startled yelp. “ _Crowley!_ ” Crowley half expected the angel to pull away (there was still a small part of him that always expected him to pull away, though it was growing quieter by the day) but instead, he found himself wrapped in plush arms and pulled close until he was cocooned in Aziraphale’s warm embrace. 

“Let’s get you warmed up,” he murmured, and this feeling of being wanted, cherished, _loved_ was still so new that Crowley had to tuck his head under Aziraphale’s chin to hide his suddenly misty eyes.

This was so much different than those short days and long nights he had spent cold and isolated, and it was entirely possible that now, held tight in his angel’s arms, winter was becoming his most favorite time of year.


	3. Stay

In a dusty old bookshop, on the coldest night of the year, Aziraphale found himself in the company of a demon. This was not particularly unusual; Crowley often ended up in his backroom with a glass of wine in his hand after they had dined out together. But something about tonight- maybe it was the warmth of the season, or the way the snowflakes had clung to Crowley’s dark hair as they made their way back to the shop- seemed to instill a certain sense of bravery regarding the demon that had simply not been within Aziraphale before.

Which was why when Crowley had looked at the clock and said, “Well, best be going, Angel,” Aziraphale had stood up with him. It was enough of a misstep in their usual dance, the one which six thousand years of practice had made second nature, that Crowley hesitated, giving Aziraphale the opportunity to move closer.

There was too much he wanted to say, ages of regret and affection and that ache in his chest whenever he watched Crowley walk away and it was overwhelming, everything wanting to be confessed all at once, the words clamoring against each other as they struggled to break free and they built up in his throat, choking him and- 

“Don’t go,” he said. It was enough. The words he couldn’t find were the same ones that always escaped Crowley, leaving him madly gesturing with incoherent noises after they’d had just a bit too much to drink.

Crowley swallowed thickly. “Angel, I-”

“Stay,” Aziraphale pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. He took Crowley’s hand and raised it to his lips to lay a kiss across his knuckles.

Crowley wanted to reach out, he could see it in his eyes, but six millennia of restraint was a hard habit to break, so Aziraphale could be patient, as Crowley had been for him so many times.

“Stay,” he repeated, so Crowley would know that he meant it and he was wanted, _adored_.

Crowley let out a choked sound and in that moment he seemed to open, so vulnerable that Aziraphale could do little else but cradle his cheek in his hand and ask it again, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of his mouth. “Stay.”

Crowley reached up and covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own, his eyes bright and full all the same emotions Aziraphale felt.

He brushed his lips gently against Crowley’s ear. “Stay.”

And then their lips joined, moving against one another as they’d always longed to and it was perfect, until they broke apart with gasping, suddenly necessary breaths and this time it was Crowley who whispered, “Always. I’ll always stay.”


	4. Mistletoe

Aziraphale was playing a prank on him. Crowley was sure of it. What other explanation could there be for the green leaves and white berries hanging mockingly above the angel’s head?

Or maybe he just didn’t understand the significance of the plant and what it was meant to represent. What one was expected _to do_ when someone stood under it. Or sat under it. As Aziraphale was. Right now.

_Oh, hell._

Crowley would be lying if he said he didn’t want to. Of course he wanted to. He’d been… _pining_ , (for that really was the best word for it, as loathe as he was to admit it,) for over six thousand years. It would be so easy, too, to just cross the room in three long strides and place his lips against Aziraphale’s.

But there were certain things you just weren’t meant to do. certain things _he_ just wasn’t meant to _have_. And so he just stared, wondering how he had let his feelings get the better of him, how he had let that tiny little spark grow into whatever _this_ was.

He lurched to his feet, looking wildly around the shop for his jacket. He had to leave. _Now._ The jacket was nowhere in sight, so he’d just have to do without it and hope he didn’t freeze to death on the way home. “I have to go,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale jumped to his feet, suddenly looking very distraught. “So soon?” 

Crowley couldn’t face that look. If he faced it, he’d stay, and if he stayed he’d do something stupid. With a choked noise he turned, fully intending to get to the door and get out, but he found the way was blocked by a very anxious angel who must have miracled himself over in order to cross the room so quickly.

“W-wait!” Aziraphale said, in that fretful way he had, and how the _fuck_ did every little thing only make Crowley fall _harder_? “I’m not trying to keep you from leaving, if you want to that’s fine, but before you go, I- I- I-” 

Aziraphale stopped and licked his lips, and Crowley almost bolted right then and there, but he made himself remain still and listen to what Aziraphale had to say.

“…There was something I wanted to give you,” he said at last. 

Before Crowley could ask what it was or could even process what he had said, he found himself being grabbed by the collar and pulled forward and kissed and _oh_. 

Crowley’s consciousness jumped to a world that was empty and new, where he had stood on a wall with an angel who had sheltered him with his wing. How could he have been so blind?

He was pulled back to the present when their lips parted.

“I guess you didn’t see the mistletoe,” Aziraphale said softly and he nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in Crowley’s shirt.

“…I saw it,” Crowley whispered, still wondering if any of this was real.

“Oh…” Aziraphale said. And then another, “Oh!” as he jumped away from Crowley, apologies spilling from his lips, and oh, no, that just wouldn’t do. No, no, no.

Crowley crossed the room and plucked the mistletoe from the ceiling before he turned right back around and made his way back to Aziraphale, who looked near tears now as he choked out another apology.

He stopped, though, looking up in confusion when Crowley placed the mistletoe on his head and it stayed there, nestled in his curls.

Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands, marveling at how soft it was. “Don’t,” he said, running his thumb under the corner of Aziraphale’s eye, where a tear had run loose. He brought their lips back together, gently, because Aziraphale was something precious, and did his best to communicate just how happy he was to be there in that moment with him.


	5. Tacky

This was madness. When Crowley had suggested they wear ‘tacky Christmas sweaters, come on, Angel, it’ll be fun’ this was not what Aziraphale had had in mind. To be honest, he would have been less troubled if Crowley had shown up at his door wearing some shockingly inappropriate garment covered with copulating reindeer. At least he would know it was just Crowley being Crowley.

Instead, the demon had arrived and dramatically removed his jacket to reveal a tartan patterned sweater underneath. And out of all the tartan patterns there were to choose from, Crowley was wearing _his_.

Perhaps he should have been insulted. They were, after all, meant to be wearing tacky sweaters, so the implication there should have been obvious. Except the sly, knowing smile Crowley had given him as he took in the garment had suggested none of the usual teasing that Crowley tended to give him over the pattern. In fact, it had left Aziraphale feeling rather warm inside.

Crowley. His tartan. His tartan on Crowley, which meant… his… demon? But, no, that was ridiculous.

Except the more he stared at the sweater, the more he started to notice strange things, like lost stitches and uneven rows, and _that_ seemed to imply that…

“Crowley,” he said carefully. “…Did you _make_ this?”

Crowley’s smile fell away to be replaced by a look of panic. “Er… No?”

Even if Aziraphale hadn’t known the demon for six thousand years, the lie would have been obvious. “You did! You made it by hand!”

“I did not!” Crowley insisted, and oh, heavens, the dear boy was pouting. How adorable.

Aziraphale smiled, happiness radiating off of him like the gentle glow of a Christmas tree. “You made a sweater with my tartan!” Oh, happiness like this had to be expressed somehow.

Crowley’s face was near scarlet. “Okay, fine, so what if I di- mmph!”

Crowley was cut off as Aziraphale, with far less hesitation than either of them had expected, delightedly mashed their lips together in a clumsy mess of squished noses, clipped teeth, and pure, unbridled joy.


	6. Snakes vs. Christmas Trees

Aziraphale stared at the scene before him and tried his hardest not to laugh. There, in the middle of the shop, was his husband draped inelegantly across a fallen Christmas tree, baubles and garlands scattered around him.

Despite his best efforts, a small titter escaped his lips which he tried to cover with a cough before asking, “Crowley, what on earth happened here?”

Crowley, clearly sulking, did his best to look dignified in his ungainly sprawl. “…I meant to this,” he said at last.

Aziraphale quirked his eyebrow and allowed the faintest of smiles to show on his lips. “Did you now?” he asked seriously.

Crowley nodded. “’M destroying Christmas.”

Aziraphale faked a dramatic gasp. “You fiend!” Despite his words he was unable to keep the fondness out of his tone, which Crowley seemed to pick up on if the reddening of his cheeks was any indication.

Aziraphale crossed the room and scooped Crowley off of the tree with no effort whatsoever. “What really happened, my love?” he asked, still holding Crowley bridal style in his arms.

Crowley crossed his arms and pointedly didn’t look at Aziraphale, muttering something entirely incoherent under his breath.

Aziraphale, well practiced is discerning meaning from the odd sounds Crowley sometimes made, understood perfectly. However, because he was more than a bit of a bastard he asked, “I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t quite catch that?”

“I _said_ ,” Crowley said, squirming in Aziraphale’s arms in embarrassment, “I was trying to take a nap in it as a snake and it fell over! Will you put me down now?”

Aziraphale pretended to think it over. “Mmm, I think not,” he said, carrying Crowley up the stairs and into their bedroom. A nap did sound quite nice right about now. “You might get yourself into even more trouble.”

Forget what people said about cats, clearly snakes were a Christmas tree’s worst enemy.


	7. I Saw Nanny Kissing Santa Clause

It was a cold night, and the world was quiet and still, yet, little Warlock Dowling still couldn’t sleep. After all, tonight was a very special night. He had been both on his very best and his very worst behavior during the weeks leading up to it, helping Brother Francis out in the garden, pulling all the kids books off the shelves at the local library under Nanny’s approving gaze.

Brother Francis had said that he would definitely be on the nice list, and Nanny had said that _extra_ naughty children receive _extra_ special toys, so he was sure to find lots of presents from Santa under the tree come tomorrow morning.

Which was why he was still lying awake in bed, too excited to sleep, when he heard the sound of jingle bells coming from downstairs sometime around midnight. Carefully, he climbed out of bed and crept down the hall to the top of the stairs, where he had a clear view of the sitting room where the tree had been set up.

Santa didn’t look quite how Warlock had expected, his hair closer to a light blonde than white with a pair of blue eyes that looked almost familiar somehow. But, he still had the bright red suit, and the big black boots, and the hat with the pom-pom, and he was pulling brightly wrapped gifts out of a large brown sack, and that was enough for Warlock’s curiosity. It was, after all, quite _a_ _lot_ of gifts.

He had almost finished when a voice across the room startled him and he spun around. “Angel, what _are_ you doing?”

When he saw Nanny, Santa put a hand to his chest in relief. “You _scared_ me,” he accused, his voice soft and light.

“My apologies,” Nanny said, not sounding very sorry at all. “I was just bringing out the milk and cookies.” She walked around the tree to stand in front of Santa. “Won’t you have some? I made them myself.”

“Ooh!” Santa wiggled his fingers over the plate before picking up the largest cookie and taking a bite. “Oh, my dear, they’re absolutely _heavenly_.”

“How _dare_ you,” Nanny said. But she said it in the same way she said ‘you horrible little hell spawn’ to Warlock, the way Brother Francis had told him meant ‘I love you,’ though he wasn’t supposed to tell Nanny that he knew.

Santa only chuckled and finished putting out the rest of the presents.

Nanny put the milk and cookies down on the coffee table and looked at the pile under the tree, raising one delicate eyebrow. “It’s quite a lot.”

“I… may have gone overboard,” Santa said sheepishly.

“You don’t say,” Nanny remarked dryly.

“Oh, I forgot one!” Santa reached into the bag and pulled out one last, small present. Instead of putting it under the tree, however, he handed it to Nanny, who looked at the gift in her hands with wide eyes.

“For me?” she asked, her voice sounding suddenly strange. “Angel-”

“Open it,” Santa encouraged. 

Nanny took her time carefully peeling back the paper to reveal a plain looking box. She gasped as she opened it and dropped both the box and the lid, clutching a single white feather in her hands.

“Merry Christmas, dearest,” Santa said gently, wiping away what looked like a tear (but _couldn’t_ be because Nanny never cried) from her face with his thumb. In a swift movement, Nanny grabbed Santa by his red coat and pressed their lips together. 

Ew.

The next morning, Crowley and Aziraphale, who was there by Warlock’s request, sat around the tree with the Dowlings, watching Warlock eagerly tear open his presents. The feather was tucked into her breast pocket, close to her heart, and she found herself feeling perfectly content.

That is, until she was sent into a coughing fit by Warlock excitedly yelling out, “I SAW NANNY KISSING _SANTA CLAUSE_!”


	8. Gingerbread Jealousy

Aziraphale, in all of his angelic wisdom, had never in a million years thought he’d find himself jealous of a _Christmas cookie_ , of all things. Yet, here he was, glaring through the candy glass window of the gingerbread bookshop Crowley had built at a cookie customer who had the nerve to cookie flirt with a cookie Crowley. Behind the cookie counter, there was a cookie Aziraphale preparing to cookie smite the poor, unfortunate cookie Casanova, whose only cookie crime was getting in the way of six thousand years of one-sided cookie pining from a cookie angel.

The scene was was an exaggerated (it was truthfully a bit understated, but Aziraphale still wasn’t ready to admit just how badly he had reacted) recreation of something that had actually taken place a little over a week ago.

Crowley had come over to the shop and was keeping Aziraphale company as he managed his inventory when a customer had walked in, much to Aziraphale’s dismay. When the customer showed no interest in his wares, however, Aziraphale had been relieved and went back to work.

His relief was short-lived, though, when he heard Crowley letting out a loud laugh. He looked up from his work to find the demon grinning and his heart sank: Crowley had never smiled like that for _him_.

He had kept watching as the customer stepped closer while Crowley, now looking annoyed, stepped back. And then the man had reached to grab Crowley by the arm and Aziraphale’s vision flashed white. The next thing he knew, the customer was lying in a human shaped dent on the wall of the building across the street and his door had been blown completely off its hinges.

Crowley, unaware of the cold fury still curling in Aziraphale’s gut had laughed as he pulled a few miracles to fix the door, the wall, and the unfortunate man while also making sure none of the passerby remembered anything out of the ordinary. “I never realized _this_ was how you made sure to never sell anything, Angel. Looks like I’ve been missing out.”

The irony of it was, Aziraphale hardly cared about his precious books at that moment, or any possible damage they might have incurred. In fact, he would have given up his entire ridiculous collection in an _instant_ if it would keep that man (or anyone, for that matter) from putting his hands on Crowley.

“You’re making the same face as your cookie, you know.” Crowley’s voice snapped him out of his musings and he realized the demon was crouched down beside him to peer into the little window, as well. They were close enough that Aziraphale could feel the warmth radiating off Crowley and it took all his discipline not to close the distance and lean into it.

“I am not,” Aziraphale said petulantly. “Why did you have to do _this_ scene?”

“I wanted to pay homage to the most best thing to ever happen in the bookshop.” Crowley grinned. “The day you saved me from an awkward conversation with a guy who was coming on a little too strongly. You see,” he began to explain. “The guy just walked up to me and asked if I was single.”

Aziraphale’s chest clenched. So the man _had_ been flirting with Crowley.

“I, of course, said I already had my eye on someone,” Crowley continued. “To which he said ‘Sounds like they don’t know what they’re missing out on. I promise one night with me will make your forget all about whatever loser has your heart.’ And that was when I laughed at him and told him he could never even _begin_ to compare.”

“But…” Aziraphale was confused. “You looked so _happy_ while you were talking to him.”

“Well, yeah, I was telling him all about _you_ , Angel.”

In the moment it took Crowley’s brain to catch up with his mouth, Aziraphale, quite embarrassingly, did his best impression of a fish, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly and generally just looking incredibly silly. What he had seen _wasn’t_ a customer flirting with Crowley and Crowley flirting back, but rather a customer _trying and failing_ to flirt with Crowley and Crowley gushing over _him_ , instead.

And then Crowley must have realized what he said, because he immediately started blushing. “I mean-” Crowley’s eyes darted around frantically, like a panicked animal looking for an escape. “That is-”

Aziraphale leaned in, and the scene in the gingerbread bookshop changed to match the one happening just outside its little cookie windows– a delighted cookie Aziraphale kissing a flustered cookie Crowley with not any annoying cookie customers in sight.


	9. 'Twas the Night

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and in a bookshop in Soho,  
An angel was reading whilst sipping his cocoa,  
Not a doubt or a fear or a worry did find him,  
For the threat of apocalypse was now well behind them.

The demon beside him laid his head on his shoulder,  
The warm buzz of alcohol making him bolder,  
Quick as a flash and swiftly he sneaked,  
To place a soft kiss on the angel’s soft cheek.

The angel then smiled, and looked up from his book,  
Conveying his feelings with merely a look,  
He slowly leaned in, his heart skipping a beat,  
The kiss that they shared was tender and sweet.

No longer caring of dangers from below or above,  
The angel and demon shared the truest of loves,  
It was out in the open, there was no need to hide,  
From now to the end, they were on their own side.

They stayed there for hours, just being together,  
Just as they had wanted for almost forever,  
They spent the whole night in exactly that way,  
And there they still were, come noon Christmas day.


	10. New Year's Eve

“You alright, there, Angel?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the clock which was ticking closer and closer towards the hour.

“Wha-? Oh! Oh, yes! Yes, of course! Absolutely tickety-boo!” He replied, a nervous smile briefly alighting on his face before flittering away again.

“‘Tickety-boo,’” Crowley parroted, carefully sounding out each syllable. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“What? Of course it does!” Aziraphale insisted, temporarily distracted from his internal fretting. “It means alright, tiptop, hunky-dory.”

“Hunky-dory?” Crowley said, amusement evident in his tone. “You definitely just made that one up.”

Aziraphale huffed in offense. “It’s more of a word than 'wahoo.’”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, which were blessedly free of the dark shades he usually wore. It was just the two of them, after all. “You take that back.”

But Aziraphale’s attention had returned to the clock. The time was drawing nearer, and he found himself burning with both terror and exhilaration equally. He wanted to do it now, just take the leap and land on the other side. But, human tradition said to wait, so wait he would. It wasn’t much longer, anyway.

Ten. Nine.

The countdown had begun. He could hear Crowley trying to get his attention, but it was muffled and far away.

Eight. Seven.

His eyes remained fixated on the clock. How could the seconds be moving by so slowly? Had Crowley stopped time again?

Six. Five.

Now, here’s the thing about Aziraphale and swearing. Under most circumstances, he found it entirely crude and unnecessary, save for two certain special occasions. The first was, obviously, when one stepped into an active portal and found themselves inconveniently discorporated. The second was when one was finally taking the first step after six thousand years of waiting and found that time (a human construct, really) was entirely unwilling to cooperate.

Four.

“Oh, fuck it.”

At precisely three seconds before midnight, on the eve of a new year that they both had thought would never come to pass, Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s, cutting off the delighted noise the demon was making over hearing the angel swear for the first time.

This kiss was… Well, for perhaps the first time in his life, Aziraphale found himself unable to find the right words to describe it. ‘Tiptop’ was _clearly_ insufficient, ‘tickety-boo’ didn’t even come _close_ , ‘hunky-dory’ was right out. Strangely, and much to his chagrin, ‘ _wahoo_ ’ seemed to be the only word his ecstatic brain could come up with.

Crowley was kissing him back, and Aziraphale could taste the love upon his lips, pure and sweet and so definitely _there_. It was everything he had hoped it would be. It was everything he never even knew he wanted.

At precisely six hundred and twenty-four seconds after midnight on New year’s Day, Aziraphale and Crowley pulled apart, finding themselves gasping for breaths that suddenly seemed so very necessary.

Crowley made a series of incomprehensible noises, his lips stretching into a wide grin.

Azirpahle nodded in understanding. “Quite right, dearest, very well said. I wholeheartedly agree.” And then he kissed Crowley again. And again. And again. Et cetera.


	11. Koala Demon

Though Crowley didn’t necessarily _need_ to sleep, he had been in the habit of it for a very long time, which meant that his corporation had become accustomed to a certain amount of rest. It wasn’t usually a bother, except that a certain angel had insisted they stay up until midnight to welcome the first New Year after the Almost Armageddon.

It shouldn’t have been a problem, really. Crowley had gone _days_ without sleeping before. But there he was, sitting on the couch with Aziraphale, wrapped tightly in his arms, and he just couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open.

“Crowley.” A soft voice reached him, as if calling to him through a thick fog. “Crowley, dear wake up.” Crowley struggled to open his eyes to find Aziraphale staring back at him. 

Upon seeing the bright yellow of his husband’s eyes, Aziraphale smiled. “Happy New Year, my love.”

Crowley dragged a hand down his face. “Aw, shit, Angel. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Aziraphale reached up to run his fingers through his hair, gently pulling at the copper strands to set them right where they had been mussed by sleep. “Don’t worry about it, dearest. You’re awake now, that’s all I wanted.”

“Yeah, but-” As Crowley slowley struggled back to full consciousness, he found himself more aware of his surroundings. “We’re in bed.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly. “Very astute of you.”

“We were on the couch.” Crowley looked around in confusion.

“That is also accurate,” Aziraphale said patiently.

“How…”

“I carried you.”

Crowley’s face flushed. “You carried me.”

“Well, it was more like you clung to me while I walked.” Aziraphale gave him a teasing smile. “I didn’t actually have to do much holding. It was quite adorable, actually.” 

Crowley buried his face in his hands. “Don’t say that.”

“Quite a nice way to end the year, I must say.”

“ _Aziraphale._ ”

“Perhaps you should have been a koala instead of a snake.”

“Angel, _please._ ”

Aziraphale pulled him closer and placed a gentle kiss on the knuckles of Crowley’s fingers where they were hiding his eyes. “I’m just teasing, my love. Go back to sleep.”

Crowley would have argued further, but being in the angels arms had much the same effect that it had earlier, and he found himself once more drifting off to sleep. “Fine. Just don’t go carrying me around, this time.”

He could feel Aziraphale smile against his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The next morning, he woke up to find himself on the couch with Aziraphale, while the angel read a book. He opening his mouth to complain, but Aziraphale, sensing him stir, beat him to it. “I didn’t carry you. You attached yourself to me when I got up to have breakfast.”


End file.
